


The Misanthrope

by d0t



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Caffeine Addiction, M/M, Mary Sue, Misanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0t/pseuds/d0t
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on two tumblr prompts that taste great together:</p><p>http://cosmignon.tumblr.com/post/99934563280</p><p>and</p><p>http://devildoll.tumblr.com/post/99990822011/captain-snark-imma-need-sterek-au-fic-where</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He comes in for the interview twenty minutes late. 

Derek opens the bookstore side every morning at eight a.m. and now he's going to have exactly ten minutes to interview this idiot. He closes his eyes, makes a silent plea for patience, and watches the potential employee in question remove the lid from a mug that can only have been a gag gift, dump a large [he refuses to use Starbucksese] coffee _and a Red Bull_ in, swish it around on the mahogany end table next to the off-white mid-century slipper chair, guzzle at least ten swallows [Derek absolutely does not stare at the bob of said idiot's Adam's apple with every gulp], then pound his forehead on the mahogany, declaring "I'm going to die here, dude."

This new twitch in Derek's eye is definitely going to require a doctor's appointment.

He clears his throat, looks at the truly frightening CV in front of him, and makes a stab at pronouncing the string of consonants.

Without looking up, his not-looking-likely potential employee mumbles something.

"What?"

"Stiles. Just call me Stiles. I'm sure you're blinking at my name like it's Martian. For all I know it is, although my mother swore it was Polish."

"Okay, um, Stiles. You haven't been in a job very long at any of these places. I'm noticing."

"That's a sentence fragment."

"What?"

"You put a period in there. I heard it. Fragment."

Derek's eyes narrow. "Yes, well, you're mumbling after scratching up my table."

"Yes, I know. It's mahogany."

His shoulders shake like he's laughing at some joke he's not willing to share.

"I already checked your references."

At that, his head comes up. "I can explain."

"You threw a piece of bologna at a customer when you worked at a deli."

"He asked me to slice _five pounds_ and then asked me if it was vegan. _Vegan. Bologna._ Do you know how long it takes to slice five pounds of sandwich meat?"

"And you berated a customer regarding his choice of tip at the restaurant."

"She was _eight-and-a-half months pregnant_. And wearing a wedding ring. And she needed the money to bail her husband out of jail."

Derek rubs his forehead. He's pretty sure he's getting a migraine.

"Your own father wouldn't give me anything more than confirming your dates of employment. My sister, on the other hand, tells me that you were asked to resign -- by your father -- for sexual harassment policy violations."

"Trust me. There was no harassment going on. Totally consensual. _So_ consensual."

Derek recognizes that look and tries to redirect the conversation back to the idea of a job interview.

"Look. My sister asked me to give you a chance as a favor to your father. I think she'd like to get a better schedule so she can see her husband more. But-- Let me put this as plainly as I can manage. You don't seem like the kind of person who actually wants to work. And the whole idea behind me hiring someone is so I can do more art and less interacting with annoying customers. Having someone here who's more annoying than the customers isn't going to help me with that."

Stiles visibly deflates. He starts to stand, but manages to trip over his own feet. The mug of caffeinated death juice nearly goes flying, but Derek manages to save it from spilling all over the slipper chair.

"Why are you actually here?" he asks, instead of handing the mug back to Stiles and showing him the door.

"Honestly? Because Laura said she thought we might get along. And I don't want my father thinking I'm hopeless. Which I guess I am. I mean, I try, but then people get so ridiculous and before I know it--"

"You're hired."

Derek honestly can't believe the words are out of his mouth, but there it is. He imagines he looks a bit like he's surprised himself, because that's exactly what he's done. But he needs to clean up his mess.

"On a preliminary basis," he adds. "Thirty days. If you can last that long without impeding my workflow or me wanting to kill you, the job is yours. But I'll continue to interview other candidates during those thirty days. In case I need a backup plan."

Stiles nods his head enthusiastically, grabs the mug, downs the rest of it like he's funneling beer at a frat party, belches, wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his nearly threadbare flannel shirt, and asks "Where do we start?"

Derek can think of a lot of places to start. Like with the amount of caffeine that's going to have this gangly ball of inattentiveness and social faux pas vibrating like a chihuahua in heat in about fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, the only place he can start is by unlocking the doors to the shop. He's already five minutes late, and there's a woman who looks like a well-fed version of Lucille Bluth at the door glaring at him like he's stolen her vodka.


	2. Day Two, Interview Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shirts. And fashion advice.

The first day with his new employee admittedly hadn't gone that badly. If you didn't count the growl he'd unleashed at the Lucille Bluthalike when she asked Stiles if the bookstore carried _Fifty Shades of Grey_. Or when he told her after the growl that if she hadn't read _The Story of O_ and _Kushiel's Dart_ and the entire series of BDSM for Dummies books [There wasn't one; Derek had Googled after Stiles' firm assertion to the woman that there was.] then she wasn't allowed to read what he was fairly certain was either a parody or a handbook for abusive relationships.

The woman had stormed out, but Derek would be lying to himself if he hadn't been smiling on the inside when she had. Honestly, how many years ago was that book even released? What idiot would be buying it now? Even dismissing the horrorshow of the writing in that book, there was a statute of limitations for pop culture ridealongs, and that woman was way, way past it.

Today, however, is Day Two. Derek rescheduled today's interview, figuring that as long as he had an employee, he could do it during regular business hours. And avoid getting up early only to have an interviewee show up twenty minutes late again.

This one? Showed up over an hour early. When he was upstairs in his studio. Covered in paint.

"So, hey," Stiles shouted over the music he had playing. "There's this _amazingly_ douchetastic hipster downstairs who says he's here for an interview."

Derek will say later that he absolutely did not practice his yoga breathing and count to ten before he turns around. Of course, he'll be lying.

"What's wrong with him? Other than he's early?" he asks as he wipes his brush off on one of the rags he has scattered all over his studio space.

"Oh my god. Wait until you see him. Skinny jeans so tight he must have painted them on. Artfully deconstructed t-shirt that I'm pretty sure came from Forever 21 -- that's a women's store, in case you're wondering -- motorcycle boots. And a scarf. And dude, this scarf is epic. I mean, epic. I'm pretty sure it's wool. And it looks like it has polka dots. Polka dots! And just wait 'til he tells you about his life."

"You've already talked to him?"

Derek wonders if a migraine can last more than one day. And be caused by a specific individual.

"Well, yeah. I thought he was a customer for the gallery. He had that whole money thing going for him. And I could pre-screen him a bit for you."

God only knows what Stiles might have said to him. He doesn't even take the time to thoroughly clean his hands before heading downstairs, because he's just realized...

"You left him alone downstairs? And the store open?"

"Well, how else was I supposed to tell you he was here? It's not like you were down there."

Stiles waits for Derek to head downstairs after rolling his eyes dramatically. Derek takes a deep breath and rolls his neck before greeting the interviewee, who--

Wow. Stiles was not exaggerating. This kid looked like he was applying for a modeling gig with H&M, not applying to work at a bookstore-slash-gallery. He has an almost bored look, and Derek's thinking "almost" because it's an affected boredom. A snooty boredom. Stiles has followed him downstairs and after a brief glare, goes back to reshelving books customers had decided at the last second they didn't really want.

Derek directs his attention back to Mr. Aberzombie to conduct the interview.

"So, uh, Isaac, right?" 

One perfectly sculpted dark blond eyebrow arches at him.

"Says here you worked at that chain bookstore at the mall for four years. Why would you want to come work here?"

"Well," Isaac drawls, making the pounding in Derek's head get worse and the temptation for rolling his eyes at this hipster douchecanoe even more irresistible. "I"m really not fond of being part of the corporate machinery," Isaac continues. "And independent bookstores are fast becoming a dwindling resource for our society. I want to contribute, in however small a way, to preserving the incredibly robust culture of the mom-and-pop stores we're all but losing in this marketspace of big-box retailers and online behemoths."

Derek's ears pick up Stiles' repeated "behemoths" and muffled laughter. He takes a deep breath.

"And what do you think your responsibilities would be here, exactly?"

"Well, based on my extensive experience," Isaac says, "I'd assume I'd be the manager freeing you up for more--" He gestures at Derek's art on the walls with a dismissive game-show-model wave "--freeing pursuits."

"Did you just use the word 'freeing' twice in the same sentence?" 

If Derek's glare could kill, Scarf Boy would be a puddle of polka dots on the floor. Stiles doesn't even make an attempt to cover his snorting laughter.

Isaac, on the other hand, arches that damned eyebrow again.

"Get out," Derek barks, to the accompaniment of Stiles' pealing laughter.

"Get the hell out of my store and take your pop psychology and cultural theory right along with you."

"Fine," Isaac sniffs. "I can't believe you'd let an employee wear such inappropriate clothing to work anyway."

Derek glances at Stiles' t-shirt, which reads "Methinkst, thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee."

"It's Shakespeare, you peasant," Stiles shouts after Isaac as he swans out the door.

Derek wonders if taking up day drinking might not be a good idea.


	3. Day Three, Interview Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another possible replacement for Stiles.

Derek had asked Stiles to arrive early today -- before open again. He'd picked up several boxes of books at an estate sale, and they needed to be sorted, inventoried, and shelved. In other words, he wanted Stiles to come in and do all the shit he hated to do himself.

He was not, however, about to give Stiles a key to the shop. God only knows what nefarious uses he could come up with for an empty bookstore with expensive paintings on the wall and an espresso machine designed to give orgasms.

So he's expecting a knock on the door to be let in, but he's not expected the distinctive sound of a body hitting his front door. Hard.

He races down the stairs from his apartment, taking them three at a time, only to see Stiles on the sidewalk, pressed up against the door, his cheek and lips leaving a mark Derek was absolutely going to make him clean later. Provided he wasn't actually dead.

Derek unlocks and opens the door, and Stiles sort of falls into the shop in a move reminiscent of a Slinky made of molten lava. Derek would like to say he's a good person, and that he asks Stiles if he's okay, but he's not a good person, so he nudges the possible corpse with his shoe and wonders if he should call for an ambulance. And if crime scene tape would draw more customers.

Stiles groans and throws his on-the-spot marketing plan right out the window.

"Dude. I am sooooooooooo hung over. Please tell me you have that steampunk coffee machine ready for action."

Derek rolls his eyes and walk toward the small coffee bar. "I'm going to offer you some advice: If you want to stay employed, it's generally frowned upon to a) come to work hung over; b) tell your boss you're hung over; and/or c) flop into your place of employment while both a) and b) are in play."

Stiles reaches into the messenger bag he carries, which looks like something someone salvaged from couch upholstery circa 1976. "I come bearing offerings, oh Super Bossman."

He holds up three 5-Hour Energy Drinks.

"I am not putting that shit in my body."

"Oh."

Stiles rolls to a slouchy sit, reaches back in his bag, and pulls out a paper sack. "Snickerdoodles. I can't bake worth shit, but my father is an angel with a KitchenAid mixer and he wanted to send you a thank you gift for gainfully employing me for two days. God only knows what he'll give you if I make it a month. Maybe a car. Or a pony. Do you like ponies?"

Derek takes the sack, pulls out a cookie, and tastes it. His sister has often bragged about the baked goods that appear at the sheriff's office, and he's pleased to discover that not only was she not lying, but he gets some for himself. He finishes the first cookie and is already on his second when he notices Stiles is still waving around the bottles he pulled out the first time.

"I said I don't want those."

"No. For me. For my coffee."

Derek is not proud of the spew of cookie crumbs that comes out of his mouth. But he's damned well going to make Stiles sweep them up. before the inventory and shelving.

"Stiles, that's grape-flavored. I am not putting a grape-flavored bottle of anything into your coffee."

Stiles clambers up off the floor and heads to the espresso machine himself, surprisingly handy with something Derek wouldn't have let him touch in a million years. Except for his hands being full of delicious cookies.

"Of course no one's putting a bottle of grape-flavored 5-hour into my coffee," Stiles says as he starts frothing the milk.

He then proceeds to dump all three bottles in before adding the foam. 

"I'm putting all three in."

Derek has to walk away before the overpowering smell of quality coffee and chemical grape combined makes him vomit, and he refuses to vomit the cookies. He ends up yelling instructions for what he wants Stiles to do from the top of the stairs.

He gets into a flow quickly, and it's all too soon before he's interrupted. Naturally, by Stiles.

"Uh, you didn't say you had another interview scheduled. But I guess you, uh, do. Today. Uh, now. And even if you don't, I think you do."

He races back down the stairs without waiting for Derek, who discovers a blonde woman wearing the shortest black leather skirt and highest heels he's ever seen outside a fetish web site. Not that he'd ever looked at a fetish web site, but if he had, he knows that's what he'd find. Imagines, that is.

"Erica?" he asks, cocking an eye brow.

"Your ad said you needed an assistant because you didn't have one. Yet I come all the way down here to be greeted by an assistant. Who's pretty much an idiot. What's your deal?"

Stiles appears to be sorting the books, but his indignant sputter gives him away. 

Derek gives Erica his patented glares. 

"First off, unless you're actually an employee here, anyone who may or may not be my employee is none of your business. Second, that one over there is temporary."

"Hey!" Stiles shouts.

"Of a sort," Derek continues.

"Look," Erica says, as if Derek hasn't spoken. "I need no less than $18 an hour. I don't clean. I don't run errands. I'll run the register, but I'm not about to climb ladders to get things down for customers. And I don't work with idiots."

"How would you know this one is an idiot?" Derek asks. His voice is deceptively quiet.

"He's wearing a shirt that offends me." Erica points. 

Derek takes his first good look at Stiles' shirt today, which declares he's against the murder of plants and also suggests eating more bacon.

"How does that offend you, exactly?" 

"I'm a vegan, and that's insulting."

Derek looks at her skirt again. 

"Is that--?" He gestures.

"Vegan leather. And my shoes. And I refuse to work with someone who eats bacon. Have you ever _smelled_ bacon cooking? It smells like someone _vaporized_ a pig. It's disgusting."

Derek turns to Stiles. "Stiles, run down to the deli and get me a BLT. Extra bacon. You know how I like my lunch order. And a one-liter of Coke. As for you--"

He turns back to Erica.

"Get the fuck out of my store. You don't get to dictate life to your employer."

Stiles is already on his way toward the door when he breezes past the gaping Erica.

"And there's no such thing as _vegan_ bologna," he yells toward her.

Derek would also be lying if he said he didn't laugh until he cried as Vegan Erica stalked her way out of the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely nothing against vegans. I was a vegetarian for 16 years before pregnancy played havoc on Things I Could Eat And Not Barf. I do, however, loathe anyone sanctimonious about their beliefs. And people who aren't nice to those in customer service.


	4. Day Four, Sister One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets a break from meeting possible replacements. Or does he?

Derek has gone up to his art cave, as Stiles has taken to calling it, and Stiles is dozing happily on the counter. Not leaning over onto the counter, mind you, but full-on, prone position, whole body on the counter dozing.

He might be drooling. If you ask him later, he'll absolutely deny it, but the woman currently standing at the counter is fairly certain there is a string of drool and a damp spot on his shirt sleeve. He's also loudly smacking his lips and telling a "Dill Baby" to "come to Papa."

The woman closes her eyes and takes one very obvious slow, deep breath before she taps Stiles' arm.

"Excuse me," she says.

He snuffles and shifts position. "Gherken, you can get in on this action, too."

The woman's eyes open so wide she's not sure she can actually close them enough to blink.

"Excuse me," she repeats, louder this time.

She gets no response.

"Excuse me!" she shouts.

Stiles wakes suddenly, arms and legs flailing as he tries to sit up and roll over at the same time. The result is a loud crash near the register, a flurry of papers, and Derek's boots pounding down the stairs.

"Goddammit, Stiles! Why the fuck can't you nap on the floor like a normal employee? If you're behind the counter, they won't startle you and then you won't make such a mess every time."

The woman turns to him, glaring.

"And this is what you consider an employee?"

Stiles pops his head over the counter. If there's a Post-It stuck to his hair, he won't admit to that later, either.

"We are sympatico! Copacetic! Soulmates!"

The woman turns her glare over to him.

"My brother doesn't _have_ a soul, so it's very unlikely that he would have a mate for something he lacks."

Stiles chortles and mumbles "Good one" as he sinks back down behind the counter to finish his clean-up.

The woman sighs.

"Derek, I thought we discussed this. The point was to hire yourself an employee who would help out around the store and _limit your interactions_ with the customers. Which you regularly lose due to your inability to be around people without inflicting your surly demeanor upon them."

"Heh. Surly cat," comes from the behind the counter.

"I was not talking to you!" she shouts in his direction.

"Seriously." She returns her attention to Derek. "He naps on the counter _and you let him_."

"Well, it's better than letting him nap in my apartment," Derek replies. "Then no one is down here to deal with the customers."

His sister, whose name still has not been shared with Stiles, rolls her eyes. Stiles is pretty sure she does it _audibly_.

"Look," Derek says. "I don't hate him. He makes an amazing cup of coffee. And I'm still interviewing candidates. Mostly."

"And my dad makes great cookies," Stiles adds, once again relatively upright perched on a stool behind the counter. He puts one foot on the floor. For balancing purposes.

"And his shirt!" The sister gestures. 

Derek looks at Stiles' shirt for the first time. It spells out "copyright infringement" using some of the best-known logo images in America, and possibly the world.

"Yeah, and?"

" _You own a bookstore!_ "

"And that's what makes it funny!" Stiles adds.

The sound the sister makes could most accurately be described as a growl.

"Fuck it," she says. "The two of you can drown in your own swamp of misanthropy. You!"

She points at Stiles. 

"Make me one of these coffees my brother insists are worth keeping you around for. And then tell me why the hell he hired you in the first place."

"You were the one who sent him," Derek says, pointing at his sister.

"Me?"

"Yes. This is the sheriff's kid?"

"Oh my god," Laura says, actually smacking her forehead with her palm.

"He wasn't there long enough for me to meet him. I was on nights, and the sheriff had him on days. If I'd known..."

Derek reassures her.

"Don't worry about it. We're getting along swimmingly."

The sound of a whole bunch of things shattering interrupts them. 

"I'll pay for that!" Stiles yells from the coffee bar.

Derek leans forward in the chair he's taken and holds his head in his hands.

"Swimmingly," Laura restates, before she begins laughing hysterically.


	5. Day Five, Father One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek meets the sheriff. Based on this prompt from @bleep0bleep's tumblr: http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/104506453957/mirrortraffic-new-developments-apparently-my

Derek has come to expect that Stiles enters the store every morning mid-conversation, as if he thinks he gets paid to start working the second he leaves his house. So it's no surprise at all when Stiles enters the store thusly:

"...and really, it's _not_ my fault. I mean, how was I to know it wasn't you coming home from work? She's supposed to show up in the _morning_ , not around our dinner time. It was _way_ after normal business hours. And I was in the middle of a raid. Do you know how much shit I'd have gotten if I had to bail because I was starving?"

What _was_ surprising, however, is that a voice was answering back.

"Stiles, I don't care who you thought was in the house. Yelling 'Grill me a cheese' for twenty minutes followed by a 'shut up bitch, go fix me a turkey pot pie' isn't appropriate for anyone. Least of all your father. But this is the sixth housecleaning service we've had quit on us and the entire state of California isn't big enough to have that many more."

"In my defense, I thought it was Scott when she started running up the stairs. I mean, you don't run up the stairs. It wasn't until I saw her brandishing the Swiffer vacuum that the whole 'shit I'm in trouble' thing caught in. And she fucked up my raid in the end anyway."

Derek takes this opportunity to clear his throat. He's pretty sure no one should be privy to this conversation. Ever. 

"Oh, hello, Derek," the sheriff says. "I didn't trust Stiles to get to work on his own today using public transportation and as you can see, he can't very well drive like that."

It's then that Derek notices Stiles looks like he went a round with Bruce Lee and lost. Heavily. His right eye is swollen completely shut, and features an array of purple, blue, black, and red tones under the skin that would have thrilled Jackson Pollack.

"Bitch had a mean right cross," Stiles mumbles.

Derek gapes.

"So I'll leave him in your care, uh, employment and get back to work. Let me know if he causes you any-- Well, let me know if he causes you more trouble than he usually causes me."

The sheriff chuckles as he heads out the door, leaving Derek stuck with an obviously grumpy and maimed Stiles.

"Do you need some ice--or a steak--for that?" he asks.

Stiles manages to glare with one eye before he heads over to the coffee bar.

"You'd think she would have realized I didn't know she was there!" he says. "I mean, who just lets themselves into your house at seven at night? Not the cleaning service, that's for sure!"

"So she punched you?"

Stiles is already tamping the grounds for his first cup of coffee when he starts his wild gesticulating, and they scatter all over the counter.

"So first she punches me, and then when I'm already down, she starts beating me with the Swiffer vacuum! If you think my face is bad, you should see my back and side!"

Derek takes the basket from him, and starts the coffee over. 

"There's no way I'm going to make you do work today when you're this bad off. At least go sit behind the register and ring people up. I'll do all the coffee things and moving book things today. Just... go upstairs and get some ice or something. That's making _my_ head hurt."

Stiles offers him a smile, followed by a grimace when the smile must hurt his face, and heads upstairs.

Derek wonders when he started to feel any sympathy for the little bastard. 

"I'm not going to to start making you food, though," he yells up the stairs.

It makes him feel a little better, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was asked why the fic keeps saying it's complete but then I add to it, and I totally get that some of you don't like to read WIPs. So I put the little ? back there, because like I explained to the commenter, I really have like ZERO plans for this fic, so I post something if the spirit moves me. So consider this a "possibly" in progress fic?
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> P.S. If you like my sense of snark, I wrote a hilarious (to me at least) rewrite of the opening Twilight scene recently. ;)


	6. Day Six, Friend One

Derek expected that the sheriff would bring Stiles to work again, as it was unlikely the swelling around his eyes would have gone down enough for him to be safe on the roads overnight.  
  
Actually, now that he thinks about it, it's probably a safe bet that Stiles would show up to work just about any day with a police escort, not limited to, but certainly including, his father.  
  
Today, however, he comes in with another man. Slightly shorter, almost certainly Hispanic, with close-cropped hair, an uneven jawline, and a sweet expression that Derek is fairly sure is hiding the true nature of a serial killer. After all, he seems to look at Stiles like he genuinely likes him, and having met Stiles' father, Derek isn't sure that's something any human being is capable of.  
  
"Derek!" Stiles yells, even though Derek is standing less than five feet from him. Admittedly, he probably has no peripheral vision on that side with the swelling and the bruising, but, well...  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Stiles reacts in a flurry of flailing limbs and a clear disregard of the laws of gravity. His chaperon appears well used to the routine, and manages to right Stiles with one hand while holding out the other for Derek to shake.  
  
"Scott McCall," he says. "I'm Stiles' best friend and ride for the day, as I have the day off from work and the sheriff, er..."  
  
"My father has sad I am not allowed in his patrol car ever again," Stiles finishes for him.  
  
Derek absolutely does not face-palm. For one, he thinks that could be the cause of the incessant headaches he's had since Stiles started working here. Secondly, as his lone employee is currently only able to see out of about three-quarters of one eye, he thinks it's best to try to not damage himself so at least one of them can see what's going on.  
  
Stiles wanders toward the espresso machine before he can stop him and the Scott person continues talking.  
  
"I really do have the day off, and Stiles said your coffee machine--"  
  
"Espresso," Derek interrupts.  
  
"Yeah, that, it's the best in town and you'd give me free coffee if I came and helped him out today so you could get back to your own work while he's, uh, incapacitated."  
  
Stiles is running back toward them, waving his arms frantically.  
  
"No, no, no! Scotty! Shit! I have to talk to him about it first. Oh. My--"  
  
And before he can get the "God" out that Derek just knew was coming, he's tripped over the slipper chair, launched himself at a truly astounding trajectory that some Major League outfielders would probably envy, and landed.  
  
Well, he's landed in Derek's arms.  
  
Both of them are speechless and sputtering, and Scott takes one look at them, nods to himself, and starts walking in the direction Stiles just came from.  
  
"I bet I can figure out the coffee machine on my own," he says.  
  
"Espresso," Derek says automatically.   
Stiles has awkwardly pushed off Derek and they are both standing there, obviously with no idea what to say, being, yeah. Awkward.  
  
"I'm, uh, yeah," Stiles says. "I'm just going to go, uh, make sure Scott, uh, doesn't break anything. Or at least, break more than I would."  
  
Derek watches him walk away in his red t-shirt with the pig that says "I love you. Don't eat me."  
  
And he thinks to himself, "Fuck."  
  
And goes upstairs to paint.

**Author's Note:**

> I know. I lost my place with the Baba Jaga fic and I SWEAR i'm going to pick it up but then prompts and shiny and squirrel.


End file.
